Nothing As Of Yet (temporary title)
by qthewildchild
Summary: C/C ship. Interesting things about nighttime and finding out.
1. Clark

"Nothing as of yet"  
  
Clark  
  
"Clark?" "Mmmph?" I pretend to be half asleep as she shifts in my embrace. "Clark, where are we? I can't see a thing." "Mmm, dunno. G'back to sleep." I can tell that this answer doesn't satisfy her. "Clark, why are you in my bed?" Crap. She's figured out that we are, in fact, in her room still. She must have felt me stiffen, because she turns around so that she is facing me. I blearily open my eyes and look her in the face. She regards me steadily, a strange look in her eyes, clearly waiting for me to answer. I sit up, pretending not to notice the tiny involuntary whimper she gives as I remove my arms from around her. I rub my face with my hands, then run my fingers through my hair, which is probably sticking out in all directions. She sits up next to me, still looking at me. "Well," I start, already blushing, "I had a really bad day. I did something stupid and got into a huge fight with my parents. When I got here, you were already asleep, and I was so upset, and. well, I dunno, snuggling up to you seemed like a good idea at the time. I fell asleep, I guess." I blushed even harder. "Sorry if I scared you or weirded you out." She was /still/ looking at me, and it was making me nervous. I begin to shift uncomfortably as I study the comforter I can feel but can't see. She lays a hand on my arm, causing me to look up into her face, expectant, waiting for. I'm not sure what. She still doesn't say anything, so I begin to swing my legs over the edge of the bed in preparation for leaving. I mumble, like the idiot I am, "Sorry. I'll just go find somewhere else to sleep for the rest of the night." She surprises me completely when she lays a hand on my arm, stopping me from getting out of bed. "Stay?" she asks me, hesitant, pleading almost. I know I should go, should make an excuse and extract myself from this situation that is getting out of hand, but I have no power to do what my rational mind is telling me to, so I lay back down, pulling the comforter up with me. She lays down next to me and lays her head on my shoulder. I can feel her crane her head to look into my face as she says, "I'll be here when you want to talk about it." That's just like her. Most people see her as a talkative person that never shuts up. She has this way of reading me, though. She doesn't need to ask me if I want to talk about it because she knows that I don't, and she doesn't waste words. Sometimes, when I am in one of my contemplative moods, I think that the talkative person that she is in the daytime is just a front to the real her, to keep the world from seeing her. I don't tell her that; I know that she would just give a snort and go back to whatever she happened to be writing that day, not even gracing my comment with one of her own. She's like that. She gives a contented, sleepy sound, and I look down at her and realize that my hand has been unconsciously tracing patterns on her upper arm while I think. She is not yet asleep though, so I move my hand and begin making slow, lazy circles on her back. She gives that little murmur again and snuggles her body closer into mine, and I finally feel her body relax completely as she drifts off into the abyss that is sleep. I long to let myself drift off beside her, into my own oblivion, but I know that neither her dad nor my parents would be pleased to find us like this. Her dad because, well, her dad hasn't realized that his little girl is not so little anymore. My parents because they probably believe that I am still in my Fortress of Solitude, fuming. If my mom comes up in the morning and discovers that I am not there, she'll freak out. And my dad. well, I don't want to think about him. He's the base of all of this angst.  
  
So, I lay there next to her for the rest of the night until the last possible moment. As the sky begins to lighten, I know that my parents will be up soon and that I need to go back. As much as I don't want to, I slip out of her embrace, forcing myself to ignore her small sounds of discontent, give her a kiss on the forehead, then speed off into the morning. 


	2. Chloe

"Nothing As Of Yet"  
  
Chloe  
  
I drift into wakefulness to a wonderful sensation. I am warm and comfortable all over, without my usual cold feet and hands, and it is a delicious feeling. I try to turn over, and pop awake when I realize that there are arms around me. Big, strong arms that are attached to an equally large and very warm body, one that is currently wrapped around me. "Clark?" I ask hesitantly. I am not completely sure that it is him, but it is a reasonable assumption. "Hmmm?" he asks, sleep making his voice thick. "Clark, where are we? I can't see a thing," I say, even though I am pretty sure that we are still in my room- my mattress is so old that the springs have given out in certain places to make a perfect hollow for my body, and I am still snuggled into that hollow. "Mmm, dunno. G'back to sleep." I am pretty sure that he is faking the sleep thing now- when we used to have sleepovers as kids, he would pop awake immediately if I shook him. I decide to stop dancing around things and just ask him. "Clark, why are you in my bed?" he stiffens, so I know that I was right- he was awake. I turn in his embrace, never breaking it, and look up into his face. I can tell from his body language that there is /something/, some good reason that he is here, so I look at him and wait, knowing that he will tell me eventually. Suddenly, he sits up, and I curse myself for the whimper that I cannot contain, although I am relieved that he doesn't notice it. It is hard for me to believe that I like his closeness that much, but in order to preserve it, I sit up next to him. A cynical thought crosses my mind, something about darkness being the place under which one could do anything, and it would not have any consequence in the real world; would even be forgotten in the light of day. My mind snaps into focus on him as he tells me that he had a fight with his parents. This is new, his being here. Usually, fights in the Kent household only lasted for one day, and everyone cooled off by after dinner. For Clark to have split meant something big. He is looking at me now, and I don't have the faintest clue what he wants from me, so I look back at him. I can tell that there /is/ something he wants when he takes interest in my comforter and begins to pick at imaginary lint on it, so I put my hand on his arm- I don't know why; for comfort, for assurance, I have no idea. But he looks up at me with his puppy dog expression, hopeful and bright, and my heart begins to crumble as his face falls when I don't say anything. He begins to swing his legs out of my bed, muttering something about places to sleep, and I realize that if I don't act now I will never get this chance again, never be at this point again, and will live the rest of my life longing after him. Impulsively, I grab his arm. There is a little voice in my head that sounds a lot like Dad, telling me that I am being impulsive and that I didn't know what I was doing, but I go with my instincts and utter the first thing that comes to my mind. "Stay?" I am appalled at myself for how pathetic that sounds, but he seems to be fine with it. I am ecstatic when he lays back down and pulls me down with him. I cuddle up next to him, put my head on his shoulder and my arm across his chest (with my hand conveniently over his heart so I can feel his heartbeat). My instincts are telling me that I shouldn't press him for details about the fight with his parents, even though my journalist's mind is burning with curiosity. My deeper instincts have not steered me wrong so far tonight, so I look up at him and simply say, "I'll be here when you want to talk about it." I am only slightly put out when he visibly relaxes. Okay, well, not visibly, because it was dark, but he relaxed a great deal after I said that. Oh, my. I don't know if he knows that he is doing it, but his hand has begun to move along my arm, up and down, around, up and down. It relaxes me a bit, and I begin to drift off to sleep. I must have made a sound or something, because that wonderful hand stills for a couple of seconds, then moves to my back, and that is the last thing I remember. My pillow smells like Clark still, but I am not surprised in the least when I wake up in the morning to find that I am alone in my cold, empty bed. 


	3. The Morning After

"Nothing As of Yet"  
  
The Morning After  
  
I stand there at the end of his driveway cursing myself. The feminist side of me has no compunctions about going up to his door to ask about what was wrong with him, but the medieval damsel part of me, deep inside, thinks that it's wrong for me to be making the first move. We've been flirting around this for a while, but I need to know what last night meant. Why did he come to /me/ of all people? His instinct was to cuddle up to me- the Clark Kent I thought I knew wouldn't do that, wouldn't even /consider/ coming over to my house that late. My thoughts have taken me to his front step, but I hesitate there on his front porch when I hear raised voices coming from inside the house. The tiny thread of resolve that I have worked up snaps in an instant- I would obviously be intruding. I turn on my heel and start to walk back down the driveway, away from all the answers and potential beginnings, but my feet won't let me go. I actually look down at them, semi-expecting my feet to be looking back at me with stubborn expressions. They weren't, of course. I realize, suddenly, that I am worried about Clark. I feel like I need to protect him- from what I'm not sure. Himself, maybe, his parents, I'm not sure. But all of my instincts are screaming that I should protect him, even though I am quite sure that he is able to take care of himself, much better than anything I could ever offer. My treacherous feet allow me a few more steps, to the safety of the ornamental shrubs that Martha insisted be planted by the driveway- they are tall now, much taller than the sproutlings that Clark and Mr. Kent complained so much about putting in- and they shelter me from anyone looking out of the house so I can talk things over with myself. All talking is forgotten after what happens next. While I have been loitering outside, the voices have escalated in volume. They reach a final crescendo with Clark shouting something about "My choice!!" and then zipping out the door. Literally. I saw nothing but the door opening and then slamming, a bit of what could have been a colored blur, and a breeze as this maybe-blur passed me. And turned into a very obviously pissed- off Clark a little further down the driveway. He stood there, hands clenched into fists at his sides, angrily kicking at puffs of dust. Apparently not finding satisfaction in that, he walked over to a tree stump. It was more of a tree, actually, the topless remnants of a dead tree Clark and his dad had to cut down a few months ago. They obviously hadn't gotten around to cutting down the rest of the trunk and making it into firewood yet. Clark stalked around for a few minutes more, obviously trying to get a hold on his anger, then suddenly spun and punched the stump. My eyes got really big here, because that large stump was now doing a great impression of a box of toothpicks. Clark had. punched it. And it was. toothpicks now? What was going on here? I took an involuntary step towards him before I realized that this should probably be treated with caution. I shouldn't go barging into this like the reporter I usually was; I needed to conveniently bring it up and be very careful, since this was obviously a big secret that he didn't want anyone to know. But I must have made another one of those involuntary sounds, because a very wide- eyed Clark spun to face me. The naked terror on his face was heartrending, and I tried to say something, tried to reassure him of my intentions. "Clark, I." I couldn't think of anything to say, my mind was blank except for the questions I knew I shouldn't ask. The reporter questions, meant to bare everything to the light of day, ruthless and cutting. The only thing that came out of my mouth was wrong, quite possibly the wrongest thing ever. "You're a meteor freak?" I heard the fright laced with disgust in my voice, even though I felt none of those things. And I regretted it immediately, but it was too late. I called after him, but after shooting me a look of absolute terror and confusion and hurt, he sped away across the fields, leaving me standing in the middle of his driveway, alone and confused.  
  
*****  
  
I was reeling. My parents were being entirely unreasonable about this whole thing. I knew the dangers inherent in telling anyone about my abilities, and wasn't planning on telling everyone as my dad seemed to think. I only wanted to tell Chloe. And maybe Lex. If I decided that I could trust him. I believed that she would accept me, deal with who I am without flinching, with her normal Chloe- like resolve. Not this. Never this. Her question was ringing in my head like a bell, bouncing around until it drowned everything else out. You're a meteor freak? The words kept bouncing, not leaving me alone. Freak, freak, freak, freak, you're a freak, you're a freak. I glance at Chloe, still standing there, mouth open, an astonished expression still on her face. I want to go to her, explain to her, but the words ringing in my head won't let me. A cynical thought creeps up in my brain; **not that she'd let you explain anyway.** I look at her for an eternal instant, tears clouding my eyes even as I try to push them back; and then my instincts take over and my feet kick into my super speed, taking me away from this madness, to safer places, though I know not where. {GAHHHH!! Ackk, bad phrasing!! Any suggestions??} 


	4. Saving Us

Thanks so much for reading, everyone!! Especially joedan84.. ( I"Nothing As Of Yet"/I  
  
Saving Us  
  
I know, suddenly, where he would go. I am standing in the driveway in despair when I suddenly just Iknow/I. Or, I concede to myself, where I think he would go. If he isn't there, then obviously I have just irrevocably ruined something special and unique and don't deserve to make it better. Well, try, anyway. I don't know if I even deserve to get that back. How could I have Isaid/I that? Oh, my God. There is a place in the woods, near one of the creeks, that is very special. When Clark and I were younger, we used to go into the woods and explore, making up adventure stories as we traveled. One day, we were walking a creek and came upon this little place. A way down the creek, there is a break in the dense bushes that line the stream, and there is a beautiful little clearing. It is straight from a fairy tale; a little glade in the midst of the dark thorny forest. It is covered in a thick carpet of grass, and it is unnoticeable from the land side. It was just right to lay down and gaze up at the clouds, fly away and pretend that you were a princess. After we found it that one summer, we would meet at the end of the creek and walk up together every day until school started. Though we don't walk up every day any more, and hardly ever together, it has remained special in our hearts, a hide out for when the world gets bad.  
  
So that is where I go now. I walk up the middle of the creek, skipping from rock to rock like we used to, and I hope beyond hope that he is there, because our friendship is one of the defining things in my life and I really don't want to lose it. I slow down, uneager to go rushing in only to find that he is not there. As I approach, still dragging my feet, I hear a small sound over the happy gurgling of the creek, something that takes me a moment to identify. Clark is crying. Small, contained sobs that are heart rending to hear. All thoughts of slowing flee my brain and I rush to the clearing, dropping to my knees beside Clark. He is lying on his side, curled into a near- fetal position, his hands over his face. I reach out, but hesitate. I don't know if I should be here, in this sacred place, when I am the one that has just caused all of this pain and loneliness. I finally gather the courage to lay my hand on his shoulder, only to have my heart ripped to shreds when he flinches away from my touch, like I am leprous or evil. Something he cannot bear to be around. "Clark," I whisper, pleading, pouring my heart into that one syllable and hoping beyond hope that he hears that plea and doesn't shun me as he deserves to. He stops shaking in that instant, and I watch as he calms himself enough to speak. His voice is raw, bitter, and angry, an ugly sound that makes me flinch when he says sullenly, "What?" "Clark," I say, my voice hoarse and cracking from the strain of not crying, "I'm sorry. I know that doesn't even begin to do it, but it's all I have to offer," I lose my fight with the tears now, and I welcome them, because Chloe Sullivan Does Not Cry. Maybe it will help him to see that I am sincere and more serious than I have ever been before. I can see him pause at this, my tears. He is still not looking at me, but he doesn't sound quite so embittered when he asks me, "Why? Why did you say that then?" His voice clouds with tears once more by the time he finishes this question. "I know you're not a freak! Clark, you have gifts, amazing gifts!! You're the first person affected by the meteors that hasn't tried to kill me or gain control of my mind!" I say this with a tentative smile. "I- I was scared, Clark, and I didn't know what to say. I really didn't mean it, but the only other thing in my mind were reporter questions that would have come out even more wrong than what I did say. I understand if you never forgive me, but I want you to know that you are an integral part of my life and I will be very sad if you are no longer a part of it. Clark, I- I really like you. I know that you are my best friend and realize that you probably don't see me that way, but I just wanted you to know in case you, you know, don't forgive me. Clark, I am so sorry." I slowly begin to get up and walk away, in part to give Clark his time to deal, but also to hide the tears that are streaming down my face, but am stopped by his hand grabbing mine. "Wait." One word, and a hand suddenly grasping mine. I look down, into Clark's tear- stained face, vainly trying to hide my own tears as he quickly stands and pulls me into a fierce hug. I have brief thoughts about the irony of Ihim/I comforting Ime/I, but all thoughts are banished when he sits down, me curled on his lap, and we cling to each other and cry out all of our frustrations and sorrows. A timeless moment later, I realize that we have both stopped crying and are now just sitting together, taking comfort in the presence of the other. He takes a deep breath and begins talking, and I sit and listen quietly. "You know I have abilities, right? Strength and speed." I nod, slowly. I know there has to be more to it, but I also know that this must be hard for him, so I let it lie. "Well, the fight I've been having with my dad was about telling people about them." He looks a little abashed now, his trademark blush darkening his cheeks as he looks down at the ground. "You in particular. My dad doesn't think that I should tell anyone at all, but I don't want to lie to everyone I care about for the rest of my life. I don't think that I could. I mean, I've grown up lying to everyone, so it's easy, but I just want to have someone to confide in that isn't my parents, ya know?" I nod slowly, agreeing. His frustration is clearly evident in his fidgeting, so I lay my hand on his shoulder to show him that I am here and listening. He continues, "I love my dad, and I know he only wants what's best for me, but he doesn't know what it's like. He doesn't know how much it hurts to have to lie to your best friends every day." Clark's face keeps scrunching up, like he wants to cry, so I shift around, then tug on his arm and pull his head into my lap. He clings to me like a life raft, one of his big hands curling around my thigh. I know that he has to work this through with himself, so I thread my fingers into his hair and gently play with it, a small comforting gesture. He talks to himself, snatches that make no sense. Eventually, his stream of words dissolves into a little trickle and then on to nothing, and I eventually realize that he has fallen asleep on me. It is late afternoon, but there are a few hours left until either of us will be needed, so I disentangle my fingers and carefully lean back until I am lying down, Clark's head still on my thighs. I am trying to keep myself awake, but I finally realize that it is a futile gesture, and I finally allow myself to relax and drift off, exhausted from the day's emotional toil. 


End file.
